


Little Drop of Poison by Aileen

by GO_Library_archivist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, Het, M/M, Mild Language, Other, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/pseuds/GO_Library_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pollution takes advantage of an oil spill under a lovely, orange-stained sky.  (I find that I can't resist saying that he has a filthy mind.  Sorry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Drop of Poison by Aileen

**Author's Note:**

> Note from [Quantum_Witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/profile): This story was originally archived at [The Good Omens Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Good_Omens_Library), which I maintained for eight years until I closed it due to lack of funds and decreased usership. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing the GOL's stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in July 2013. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Good Omens Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheGoodOmensLibrary/profile), or through the [GO_Library_archivist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/profile) account.

[Little Drop of Poison](viewstory.php?sid=410) by [Aileen](viewuser.php?uid=135)

 

 

  
Summary: 

  
Categories: [Slash Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=3), [Other](browse.php?type=categories&catid=4) Characters:  Aziraphale, Crowley, DEATH, Famine, original character(s), Pestilence, Pollution, War  
Genres:  Smut  
Warnings:  BDSM, Het, Language (mild), Slash (explicit)  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 1681 Read: 136  
Published: 23 Nov 2008 Updated: 23 Nov 2008

 

 

Story Notes:

Mostly post-antiapocolyptic, but involves recollections.  Pollution, in the general sense,  has existed since the rise of man...I do realise that this contradicts GO and biblical timeline a bit, but in any case, I believe he has existed for millenia even in the GO timeline in some form.

 

Chapter 1 by Aileen

 

 

_"All this is not equal to the poison which flows_  
From your eyes, from your green eyes,  
Lakes where my soul trembles and sees its evil side...  
My dreams come in multitude  
To slake their thirst in those bitter gulfs."

 

_\--from_ Le Poison _, Charles Baudelaire, translation by William Aggeler._

 

Beneath a blighted and lurid moon, the rough river ran.  The water was rust-coloured, and it growled in its greased bed.  There were no fish living in it; the fish had drowned long ago.  

Amid a clutter of broken metal drums on the shore, a slim, naked figure leaned back on his hands, gazing with bliss into the red and insalubrious reflection of the city on the smog.  The western sky was on fire again.  The figure would have appeared, to a passing human, to have been a man in his mid-twenties, though the being in question was far older.  The hair that brushed his shoulders was as fair and abundant as it would have been if he'd been twenty; his skin was lunar pale, perfectly smooth, and faintly glossed.  His eyes, however, clearly belied his youth, for everything he had seen over the millennia flickered behind them like the first Paleolithic fire by which man kindled his life.   

His eyes also implied that he was not human.  They were grey as ash, and shot through with noxious highlights the colour of cheap, high-proof German absinthe-- or perhaps of the sky, before a tornado.  If you looked closely enough, you might see the shape of a familiar symbol in each of his eyes.  It is a symbol commonly used to warn humans away from containers of uranium 235, iodine 131, radium, plutonium.  Radioisotopes and dangerous things.  It had every business being in his eyes. 

He smiled like the green fairy that lives in the absinthe.  As before a tornado, the birds went silent in his presence, and where he lingered long, there was a sense of fragile, wary stillness.  The sky that curved around him was low and heavy.  A storm was coming. 

Pollution's skin had hummed pleasantly as he walked through the industrial districts, and he had paused beneath a filmed and moth-fogged street-lamp to savour the sensation.  The lamp's yellow light made the leaves of the weedy trees look thirsty, poisonous, and diseased.  Rubbish had crowded joyously at his feet beneath that street-lamp, ringing amber glass and fluttering, shimmering cellophane.  The eyes of the city had looked back at him from jaundiced puddles in gutters and drains.  They had _winked_. 

Pollution's hand slipped slickly along the curve of his hipbone, fingers trailing damp and hot across his inner thigh.  His skin was cold, but it was beginning to grow warm under his touch. 

He reclined on the river's wasteland bank, rubbing himself luxuriantly into the dark spill.  He tipped back his head and smiled.  Damask curls gleamed with prismatic obsidian slime, dripped with a thousand sinister colours.  He closed his eyes, and saw again the regal black smokestacks, towering over crouched factories with grimed, cracked windows.  Tall columns breathed rolling, dancing black smoke into the ochre-streaked sky.  The metal had been hot and brittle to the touch, flaking in his soft, caressing hands.  Smoke had stroked his face and whispered to him.   

He felt blood rush, thrilling through the arteries, pooling between his thighs.  Rich scarlet blood, the colour of War's razored smile.   Alizarin crimson; cadmium red.  Heavy metals and carnage.  He moaned, sliding his hand down the shaft slowly, back arching from the heated, slippery stones.  Beautiful, bio-hazardous War and her treaded tanks and toxins and lethal lead.  War, who had eyes like a forest-fire and hair that shone like a polished, poisoned apple.   

And Famine, slim as sickness, so strong and so _hungry_.  Famine had been eating a nearly microscopic, intricately-crafted bon-bon when Pollution had arrived at the door one evening.  Very few of the delicacy's ingredients were natural or nutritional.  Pollution had watched with a watering mouth, feeling that the other Horseman were licking and devouring some part of himself.  Famine had smiled evilly as he dropped the gold foil wrapper on the pavement, letting it flutter temptingly at Pollution's feet.  It had made Pollution feel hungry, too.  He wondered if Famine enjoyed the idea of tasting things he could not consume.  He sighed and wriggled in the oil, skin deliciously greasy and warm, sliding over the smooth stones.  He thought of Famine's thin lips wrapped around him, teasing, miserly, merciless.   

Pollution gasped when the first drops of rain touched his body.  The rain was cold, clear, almost pure.  He could smell the acid in it, but it washed him nonetheless, pushing at the oil and beading on his belly.  It made him feel naked and sore and _clean_ , and he wondered if it were right that he enjoyed that, too.  Perverse.  He grinned and shivered.  It started to pour, and he leaned upwards, into the rain, letting it strip him of his poisons and rinse him. 

It had been raining when he'd met _her_.  Gaia, Demeter, Mother Earth: Nature's ruthless queen.  She had a hundred names, and she was very old and very beautiful.  She had chained him to a bed of flowers with green, cruel vines.  Blossoms had pressed to his skin, silken and soft, making him writhe in fear and exultation.  He had bled where the thorns had pricked him, and bled where he was stung by the living whip she wielded with the force of a focussed hurricane.  His blood had yellowed the grass where it fell, made the flowers darken and die.  The grass had been very green, and soft, and he had pressed into it, sighing, rubbing it against his face.  Later, he recalled, she had ridden him like a hurricane, too, cursing him and snarling.  Many days later, she had appeared at his door in snow-white silk, body lush and ripe, smelling of lilies, coy and sly.  She had pleaded, cheeks burning with a calculatedly rosy blush, to be corrupted, ruined, destroyed.  He had complied, groaning and shuddering.  Afterwards she had smiled like a panther with a secret, and made him feel young and vulnerable. 

Unbidden, his mind conjured Pestilence from the ages, ancient and eternal and wearing the beautiful face of a pre-Raphaelite nearing death.  The personification was sleepy and sickly and wicked, sweat-damp dark curls and pale blue eyes, consumptive flush in cheeks and lips.  Pestilence's body had been fever-hot when he had fucked Pollution on the sand that night, after the tanker had crashed off-shore.  The smell in the air was cloying and pungent, suffocating and tantalizing.  The oil had ignited where they lay and twisted, casting hazy orange shadows on the water. 

And he thought of the angel, perfumed with the benign must of dry-rot, mildewed parchment, burned wax, and wine.  Delicate hands and white feathers that begged to be defiled.  The angel's demon, too-- the beautiful demon whose voice was alluring as laudanum, bittersweet as cyanide.  Yellow eyes that made Pollution think of venom, bile, nicotine, dying daffodils in fields burned by a sun bared of the ozone layer.  Or of the naked sun itself, imprisoned in darkness. 

All around him, he sensed the presence of mankind.  Sweet, soft humans.  Faces painted in mineral oil and synthetic dyes.  Bodies wrapped in spandex, lycra, nylon, vinyl.  Clinging, slick and shiny, sticky, hot, and wet.  Soothing their flushed bodies in rooms chilled with freon-powered machines.  Warming their hands at hearths where fires filled the air with malignant smoke.  Killing the ozone layer.  Choking the seas.  Pollution moaned.  He felt loved.   

Pollution's free hand moved over himself, smearing the dark oil across his chest, his nipples, the slender length of his throat.  He hissed as his cock moved through his well-lubricated hand.  His own skin felt so good, so smooth, so wet.  So sensitive.  He wanted to be touched.  He thought of industrial heat licking his body, of War's crimson lips and vicious teeth, Famine's teasing, tantalising smirk, Death's cold, deep, crushing gaze.  He could almost smell them.  Blood and iron; dust and candy; incense and earth and white flowers.  War's touch would crackle and tingle, Famine's touch tug at the nerves with longing...and surely there were no matches for Death's cold, swift, imperious hands.   

He moaned again and moved through his fist, harder.  The fingers of his free hand trailed over his thighs and belly, scrawling inky, abstract poetry on paper-white skin. 

He felt the world fall and burn, felt it crumble and sob with a million despairing voices.  He felt the burn of Armageddon, the shock and shriek of Apocalypse.  He cried out when he came, spilling radium-bright streaks over his chest.  Heat lightning pulsed on the scorched horizon behind him.  Pollution purred, curling his fingers to rub his radioactive seed into the heavy, dark oil, turning it luminous silver.   

A low voice at his ear broke into his languor.  "Enjoying yourself?"  Famine whispered.  A slim hand fondled Pollution's chest.  It _did_ tug at the nerves.  Pollution trembled.  "Don't let me disturb you."  A soft, dangerous laugh came from behind the smirking embodiment of hunger.   

"Oh, Sable, you'll spoil the moment," War murmured with a sharp sly smile in her tone, and Pollution flushed when she pressed a searing kiss to his cheekbone, leaving a smear of blood as souvenir.  "Cigarette, Sweetie?" 

Pollution rolled his eyes.  "Of course.  Fuck."  He inhaled deeply and tasted every one of the manifold toxins and sighed softly, watching the smoke rise to join the clouds.   

I AM ONLY HERE OUT OF INTELLECTUAL CURIOSITY, OF COURSE, Death remarked, BUT I WOULDN'T OBJECT TO A REPEAT PERFORMANCE IF YOU FEEL UP TO IT.  NO PUN INTENDED.   

    

 

 

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://library.good-omens.net/viewstory.php?sid=410>


End file.
